


when you’re close to me i shiver

by kattyshack



Series: come on home and turn me on [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Roommates, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Jon has another regularly scheduled existential crisis over his totally platonic feelings for Sansa.(title from “shiver shiver,” by walk the moon)





	when you’re close to me i shiver

If you’d asked a younger, naive Jon Snow where he saw himself in ten years, at no point in his blissfully ignorant adolescence would he have said “Living in a three-bedroom flat with one best mate, one tolerable—okay, fine, _lovable_ louse, one best mate’s sister who I’m sort of afraid of, and the other sister I’m also sort of afraid of but absolutely wouldn’t kick out of bed.”

Considering his current living situation, mid-twenties Jon Snow can hardly believe his youthful idiocy. He’s not quite sure how this had come to pass, only that it seems inevitable in retrospect. He, Robb, and Theon had been thick as thieves since childhood, so it had come to no surprise to anyone when the three of them signed off on the flat after university. Arya was in the city for her advanced gymnastics program five days a week, so it only made sense that she’d move in to avoid the hour-long commute from Winterfell. And Sansa…

Well, Sansa’s string of serious but shitty boyfriends guaranteed that she’d need a place to stay every time her latest relationship crash-and-burned. Her last breakup was nearly a year gone by now, but Robb had put his foot down when she’d shown up crying over Harry’s latest—and final—indiscretion.

“Arya, go get the rest of Sansa’s shit from Harry’s,” he’d barked, because Arya was the only one who could be trusted to merely threaten Harry instead of actually kicking his dumb arse in an emotional fit. “She’s moving in with us.”

No one had a mind or the heart to argue. Jon, for his part, would have appreciated the opportunity to tell Harry to fuck off, but Sansa had been crying into his shirtfront and he hadn’t the will to leave her. Stroking her hair and murmuring soothing words in her ear had been a dangerous inclination to indulge, but Jon told himself he could stop whenever he wanted, and so he’d indulged to his stupid heart’s content.

The trouble is, now it’s ten months later and at no point has Jon even _tried_ to stop.

After Harry, Sansa had pumped the brakes on her heretofore disastrous love life, so it’s not as though she’s needed any comforting whispers lately. But that hasn’t prevented Jon from being her knight in shining armor at every turn.

She needs a ride to the art studio she manages with Margaery? Jon elbows Arya in the ribs to keep her from offering so he can instead. (Arya clotheslines him later in retaliation, but it’s totally worth it.) She’s out of pajamas because she’s doing everyone’s neglected laundry, including her own? Jon ignores Theon’s pointed looks and lends her an extra shirt and boxers. (She looks so fucking good in them, too, thank god Robb’s too oblivious to notice anything weird about the way Jon’s _clearly panting_ in her general direction.) She’s bored and wants to paint someone else’s nails? Jon is comfortable in his sexuality, okay, and anyway that particular shade of navy she likes to use on him really does compliment his skin tone. (Besides, he’d let Sansa do quite literally anything to him if it means she’s got her hands on him for twenty minutes.)

They’re little things, Jon knows that. Little, inconsequential, everyday things. But he would do _anything_ for her, and all she has to do is ask. Sansa doesn’t take advantage—perhaps she doesn’t even notice the way he trips over himself for her—and she gives it all back in spades. Not out of obligation or so she could hold it over your head later, but because that’s just who she is. She takes care of people because she _loves_ them—and maybe that’s what makes Jon love her.

Not that he, you know, not that he _loves her_ —not like that, Jon is always quick to tell himself when his mind wanders. Of course, Sansa is clever and stunning and she makes really, really good chili and she smells like a meadow and she buys his favorite coffee when he’s had a bad day and he really, really wants to kiss her, but that’s… That’s just like… _a thing_. It’s not _love_. It’s… facts.

Incidentally, Jon is relieved that he never has to explain this to anyone out loud. He can pretend it makes sense in his own head, but the illusion would shatter as soon as he tried to articulate it to a less biased person.

But it’s fine. It’s fine. Jon has it under control. Not that there’s anything that needs to be controlled, but if there were, Jon’s completely, one-hundred-percent on top of it—

“OUCH!”

“Fuck.” Jon tosses the book he’d been pretending to read on the coffee table and hauls arse to the bathroom. The door’s cracked just so, so he raps gently on the frame with his knuckles. “Sansa? You alright?”

“Yeah, I just—” There’s a hiss of pain, and Jon almost kicks the door in because he’s a glutton for melodrama, apparently. “I cut my ankle when I was shaving. Could you—oh, you haven’t got to _hover_ , Jon, just come in, I’m mostly decent and I really need a bandage… or a skin graft, _god_ …”

Jon nudges the door open and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Under normal circumstances, he’d give any of his limbs to see Sansa in nothing but a towel because, well, _yowza_. But now she’s gone and injured herself, so the last thing Jon needs is the twitch in his traitorous cock just because he happens to see miles and miles of her bare skin.

What is he, sixteen? Jesus.

He grabs the first-aid kit from the medicine cabinet and crouches down at the edge of the tub where Sansa’s perched. Her ankle’s bleeding something fierce, but Jon has seen enough injury in his friendship with Robb and Theon—not to mention Pyp and Grenn’s foolhardy antics, no matter how he and Sam try to talk them out of such stunts—to be truly bothered by it.

“God, what are you using to shave?” he jokes. He tips hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton swab and begins to clean the gash for her; his free hand has a loose grip around the back of her leg to keep her steady. “A machete?”

“Har har,” Sansa snorts. She tries to kick him, but he tightens his hold on her leg to stop her. “Keep joking, funny man, but I’ve still got the razor that did this to me.”

Jon grins. “You’re sexy when you’re threatening me.”

“I hate you,” Sansa laughs, but she cards her fingers gratefully through his hair while he bandages her ankle, and he thinks that hating him’s the last thing on her mind. “Thanks. What do I owe you for your superb medical services?”

“Hmmm…” Jon pretends to think about it, but in all honesty there’s not much to mull over when he’s kneeling at her feet, his fingers grazing her hamstring, and her skin’s so _warm_ and she’s half-naked and the bathroom’s all steamed up and the flat’s empty except for the two of them— _god_ , but what’s there to think about but common decency and Jon’s sense of chivalrous honor that is, admittedly, hanging by a thread under these circumstances?

Jon doesn’t know what it would feel like for his brain to short-circuit, but if he keeps this up, he’s sure to find out.

He needs to get this back under control—whatever _this_ is. Because clearly it’s something, no matter how much he’d like to deny it. He doesn’t actually know why he’s denying it in the first place, only that he can’t bear to think about it long enough to figure it out.

Because it’s _Sansa_ , isn’t it? And Jon near fucking _worships_ her, so he’s really got to get his shit together before he starts hitting on her in the bathroom.

“I’ll think about it,” Jon says at length, and regretfully pulls his hand away from the ankle he’d much rather hitch over his shoulder while he eats her out. ( _Oh, for fuck’s sake, man…_ ) “Can I get an IOU?”

“Sure,” Sansa agrees. The tips of her bright orange toes wriggle against the tub’s rim. “Just let me know what you want when you want it, yeah?”

“Right.” Jon’s eyes flick from her knees to her exposed collarbone; he swallows thickly and suddenly it’s hard to breathe at all. “I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He nearly trips in his haste to straighten from the floor and escape to a corner of the flat that isn’t so overwhelmingly _Sansa_ —her presence, her scent, the curve of her fucking _lips_. But her offer rings in his head and he couldn’t escape her, not even if he really wanted to—and, of course, he doesn’t. That’s the last thing he wants. What he wants… well… that’s… _Fuck._

_Just let me know what you want when you want it._

Jon knows very well what he wants, he thinks as his fingers tingle where they’d touched Sansa’s hot, bare skin. And he wants it all the goddamn time.


End file.
